Hollow
by Rainbow Stevie
Summary: Horatio’s attempt to come to terms with Marisol’s death. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: I, the undersigned (Rainbow Stevie) do hereby disabuse myself of the notion that I, as opposed to Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer, Ann Donahue and other important people at CBS, have any legal claim to the characters or storylines of CSI: Miami, and do solemnly swear not to attempt to make any monetary profit from the fictional works I create when borrowing said characters. Signed, Rainbow Stevie.

Spoilers: Through season 4

Notes: Sort of a post-ep for Rampage (great episode as is, but I wanted to explore just a little more, because I like Marisol) I may be making up my own timeline after getting conflicting reports on exactly how much time passed between each of the final three episodes. Oh, and I'm replacing the final scene of "One of our Own" with what it would look like if we didn't have to set up for season 5.

If you would like to suggest a different title, feel free. I had no idea what to call it.

* * *

**Hollow**

Wrong. That's the word he'll always use to describe this moment. It's wrong that she's lying in a hospital bed, again a prisoner of the IV drip when she's finally in remission, and it's wrong that he's green-lit yet standing there without a mark on him, and most of all it's wrong that they're here, having this ridiculous conversation about dinner plans they won't be keeping, as she hovers between life and death. All he wants to do is wake up to yesterday and find her safe, curled up asleep at his side. This isn't an option, so he keeps talking, seeking distraction.

"You're not planning to…" the words catch in his throat; he starts over. "You're not planning to stand me up, are you?" He's teasing her, giving her the smile she wants to see, trying to pretend there aren't tears in his eyes and his voice isn't breaking.

"Never," Marisol whispers with the last of her strength, echoing his promise in the ambulance, and offering back a smile of love and trust. Horatio gets one last look into her eyes before they close, knowing he'll never see them open again, and suddenly he has nothing but the whine of the monitor for company. No flurry of doctors and nurses running to help. "She was holding on for you," they'll tell him later, having already told him, in hushed, practiced tones, that the internal damage was irreparable; it was only a matter of time – hours at best. And so the room remains still as her hand falls limp in his, as he slides his thumb over the simple silver band of her wedding ring, a tangible symbol of their all-too-brief happiness.

He sits there in the hospital's rigid beside chair for some time, while it gradually sinks in that their life together is over. Too numb for tears, the grief seals itself inside, eating away at him like an acid, hollowing him from the inside out to a shell of the man he was yesterday. Dimly it registers that he needs to call Eric. Her brother deserves to know…just as soon as finds the strength to move. Strange how a hollow shell can feel so heavy.

00000

He's been at work for 37 hours now, because he can't bear to go home. If he goes home, he'll find her clothes tossed on the floor, rumpled and careless because she could always pick them up later. He'll see their wedding photo, still too new to have gathered even a speck of dust. The majority of her belongings remain in her house, not yet transferred, but there are traces of her touch everywhere.

Were he an optimist, he might have taken some comfort in the things he'd done right. He told her he loved her. He was at Marisol's side in the ambulance, leaving only when circumstances forced him. He kept the vigil, and he was there for her in her final moments. They got to say goodbye, in not so many words, and she slipped away in peace. If she had to die, at least she was not alone.

_If she had to die_. But she didn't have to, did she? Without realizing it, Horatio's jaw clenches in anger. It wasn't enough to shoot her. They did everything in their power to make sure she didn't survive, and they got their way. That's what he can't stop echoing in his head, over and over and over again, _she would have lived. _He'd had one of the men responsible on the ground, and he was nearly shaking, so badly did he want to squeeze the trigger and empty a bullet into Memmo Fierro's brain. He's past thinking about Stetler, about IAB, about the Feds. They could have his badge for this. Hell, they could probably send him to jail for this. He doesn't care.

Idly, he wonders what Calleigh would say. Eric is as blind with fury as he is. Ryan's a good CSI, but hasn't experienced enough gray in his black and white world. Calleigh's the only member of the team able to walk the line, but he thinks that this time they'll be standing on opposite sides. She won't understand. Why for Marisol, she'll wonder? Why not when he'd first lost his brother? Why not after Speedle?

Because Raymond had made choices, made mistakes, that led to inevitable, if regrettable, consequences.

Because Speedle…because when Speedle was killed, he still belonged to himself, and he was still a man of reason and law and justice, and he bent the rules, but he didn't break them.

Because Marisol was an innocent bystander on the sidewalk, and the Mala Noche gunned her down in cold blood. She didn't have one killer, she had a dozen, and for every one he sent to jail, another would wriggle out of a conviction and live to throw it in his face.

He should talk to his priest. He should go to confession. But he can't do either, because he has no remorse. He's killed three men in the past week, and feels nothing but grim satisfaction. They deserved it, and he's glad, and he'd do it again. There is nothing penitential in his soul, because if he blocks out everything beyond his vendetta, there will be no room left for the chasm of heartbreak that threatens to tear him apart at any moment, torments him with a pain he's helpless to eradicate.

00000

Morning light. He's fallen asleep at the desk, and no one's had the heart to wake him. He wishes he had dreamed about her, but his dreams were empty and devoid of images. Sleep insulates him from reality, but he doesn't want it. He gets up and goes back to work, tracking leads. It doesn't really matter if he's pushing himself to the breaking point when his life is already in pieces.

It's easier than some of the tasks that lie before him. The thought crosses his mind as he punches meaningless numbers to connect him to people from whom he doesn't want to hear. Is he really doing this? Is he really making arrangements to bury the woman who nine days ago stood before him in a pristine white dress and vowed, "I do"?

Two weeks later, his mind still hasn't settled. He's pushed her clothes to one side of the closet, a door he hasn't opened since. The remnants of the last meal she made have long since hit the garbage (though he doubts that he'll ever see _ropa vieja_ the same way). He leaves the picture out, simultaneously preserving her memory and sharply emphasizing her permanent absence. Comfort, or cruelty?

00000

In an abstract context, the cemetery is a beautiful place. Located off a quiet road, it has lush, vivid green, perfectly mowed grass encircled with an old-fashioned wrought-iron fence, populated with a mixture of flat markers, carved granite stones and mausoleums, shaded here and there by stands of assorted deciduous and palm trees. In particular, a stone's throw from where he's standing is a majestic thick-trunked oak, heavily hung with strands of Spanish moss. Horatio isn't there in an abstract context, though, and he sees only the barren earth in front of the tombstone reading _Marisol Delko Caine, 1978-2006_.

It's already becoming habit, the last stop before home at the end of the day, spending these quiet minutes by her grave. He is the only figure in sight, misery etched into his face as he stares at the words. The wind whispers unintelligible phrases that remind him of her voice and constrict around his heart; he doesn't trust himself to speak. He never does. Wordless, he slips the single red rose into the waiting jar. As he tenderly arranges its petals so the fullest blooms face forward, wind brushes their velvety surface against his skin.

When he draws his hand back, he's trembling. He swallows hard, and then wonders what he's trying to hold back. The emotion that's been building for days lashes dangerously against its restraints until suddenly his vision blurs. Unguarded and vulnerable, head bowed, a tear slides down one cheek, its twin following down the other. Eventually he loses count.

So falls another sunset in Miami: fading rays of sunlight dappling through the leaves, birds exhausting their final melodies, and the sound of one man weeping.


End file.
